Notes from the 3rd shift: behind closed doors

George Goner

"A man thinks strange things when he's out of his mind..."
Sitting here at my desk, watching the minute hand of the institutional-style clock on the wall move its slow way off the 12 that makes the hour 4 am, I consider my possible actions, if any, between now and when they let me leave at daybreak. The voices are louder, more insistent, each time I make my security rounds of the building. I am not safe here. 

---

I thought I would be. I told you about the dead voices I heard at the fire-demolished mill complex. Then the security company transferred me to this housing for the elderly complex run by the Catholic Church here in downtown Providence, and I figured things would be OK. I was raised Catholic, I figured if there was one place I would be protected from the laughter and hatred of the dead children, it would be here. And at first I felt safe and at home. I had a scare from that yarn doll the old lady hung on her door at Christmas, but it never followed me and looked around corners at me like I was afraid it would do. Then last week I saw the old lady had taken it down.   No harm done.
I felt uplifted. I talked with the residents and started to feel like I really got to know some of them over the next few days. I walked the hallways every two hours with no hesitation, past the yarn doll door without a backward glance, heard the old lady praying in that apartment, and smiled to myself at what a fool I had been. Not only was the doll not possessed and moving, but the resident who lived in the apartment was a devout Christian! I felt that I had also crossed over difficult waters and found peace...
Not anymore.

In the the three days since then, I wonder if I am going out of my mind. I find myself asking terrifying questions about the people who live in this building, and what they worship. Those voices, raised in horrible cadences in a foreign language. Prayers to God? Or prayers to some-
thing else? 
I'm jumping to conclusions. I must be. 
The halls echo. The voices come from behind closed doors. This is an old building, built before 1920. Even after renovations, the apartment doors are still sturdy maple -not the flimsy, pressed plywood-type material used in construction today. I could be mistaken. I was mistaken about the yarn doll, letting my imagination run away with me. But listen:
Three days ago I arrive for work, just before midnight. I call in to the security office, sit down at my desk in the lobby, and date the night's report. I make sure my desk is in order. I take the security wand out of its drawer (we touch sensors with the wand on each floor to record our patrols), 
and set off on my first round of the night. 
At first everything seems fine. I pass the yarn doll lady's apartment on the first floor, and hear her praying. I continue down the hall and hear another muffled voice raised in loud discussion. Then, on the second floor, I hear whispering. I think to myself, Why shouldn't they whisper? After all, what they have to say is none of my business. I finish the round and return to the lobby. On the way back I stop at the Coke machine in the laundry room for an orange soda. No sweat.

Two hours later, I'm on patrol again. This time, I hear whispering from at least one apartment on
all eight floors of the building. I stand outside the doors and try to listen. I can only understand a handful of the words. And there's something else the matter. The voice behind the yarn doll lady's door doesn't sound so much like praying. I'm not sure what it sounds like. For one thing, it sounds like she's not alone anymore. It's not like in a movie. I'm scared. What does it sound like, in real life, when somebody talks to the devil?
I'm sitting at my desk in the lobby. I don't know what to do.

---

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